Smith's Song
by The Smiling Shadow
Summary: Don Davis dedicated the song, "Why, Mr. Anderson?" on the Revolutions album to Smith. The song if listened right, was a story of Smith's life. And I dedicate this to Smith as well as Don Davis.


Smith's Song  
  
Can you hear the code? Scrolling down the screens, like rain on a window? Forever scrolling, never stopping, leaving people behind. The code stops for no one, and leaves the sounds of loud trumpets. The trumpets loud from power.  
  
But everything soon stops, stops for him. And the trumpets silence for the violins. They play a beautiful slow song. Toying with the different keys, and sounds, repeating, and silencing. Just as Agents. Slow, like the voice of an Agent. And perfect just as Agents should be.  
  
Then why does the music sound so sad?  
  
The violins, the strings deepen, and one trumpet plays alone.  
  
The trumpet plays with the strings, blending into one, but can be heard distinctly, louder, stronger. Just as he and the others. He is them, but different, a trumpet playing with violins.  
  
The music begins to lighten. The trumpet plays louder, and the strings higher. The sadness seems to stop, and the music rises. It seems something has been found.  
  
Something good seems to come. Is it the codes? Did he find the codes to Zion? Will the smells finally go away?  
  
But it all falls apart in the end. The codes are taken from him. And the music mix in different keys, blending a mixing of unknown emotions. Inevitably they form into what sounds as if anger.  
  
The trumpets play furiously, loudly, never stopping, again and again they scream. They, he wants the codes, and he wants the Mr. Anderson dead. And there is one final scream from the strings. A shriek of high notes, surely in the fourth position.  
  
And it is quiet again, slow, deep, and quiet.  
  
But the peace only last a moment, and one violin shrieks, and stands alone.  
  
The all the horns return, booming of anger, of hatred.  
  
And all return to the slow quietness of an Agent. The sounds no longer of sadness, but something else. It is power. And a virus is born.  
  
He does not mind the loudness of the music. It is alright, it is after all his. He stands there, staring off into the rest of the world, the fake, fake world.  
  
A world that ask so much of him, and he got nothing in return. Things were taken from him his purpose, his life. And he asked for nothing. He only wanted one thing, and he couldn't handle it. The death of Mr. Anderson. But he couldn't do it.  
  
But now he can.  
  
Power surges through his entire coding, power he thought he could never know, could ever exist. The music grows louder.  
  
He had to die to come back. Die as a program in a suit. Let the human consume him. And return as something greater. Return, having taken a piece of that human. Become a Virus.  
  
His copies return to him, and he takes a moment to turn to them.  
  
He smiles, and a choir begins. They sing with the trumpets, perfectly, as if they were the very connection Smith and Mr. Anderson had. The choir sing for The One, the trumpets for the Virus.  
  
The choir grows louder, and we see, the choir does not sing for Mr. Anderson, they sing for Smith. They sing in triumph. The Virus has conquered, the Virus has one. No longer bounded by the rules, the Matrix has no power over him. He can do whatever he chooses.  
  
The choir is silenced by the horns, and they both fade into the darkness.  
  
Can you hear the code again? It returns, still scrolling down the screen, still raining. But it soon fades into nothingness. It finally stops, and there is silence for one split second.  
  
But of course, something must replace the void.  
  
That is when trumpets boom loudly, and scream their, his presence. The Matrix is gone, and there is only Smith.  
  
A violin plays alone, a high pitch note, mimicking The Virus.  
  
And the rest play in a circle of notes, always repeating, again and again, mimicking the copies.  
  
The Virus watches as they carry out their purpose, again and again, they multiply. The music grows louder, as he grows stronger.  
  
The choir begins again, louder than before. They will scream to the heavens, Smith, The Virus is here. They scream in the same rhythm as the music, still playing a circle of notes. The trumpet playing louder than anything else. Smith still being the strongest.  
  
And soon we see.  
  
As he flies into the heavens of the bleeding Matrix, it is the death of a Virus. And the birth of a god.  
  
With the power of the Oracle, and the last Exile Smith shaped his world into his own choice. For the coming Mr. Anderson, he welcomed him with gloom and rain, the crying Matrix, the crying Zion, and soon the crying Smith.  
  
He saw the future, and the choir played beautifully for him, he smiled at them.  
  
And in the battle the Mr. Anderson, a messiah, was no match for a god such as him. Mr. Anderson took so much, and he was taking it back.  
  
In the rain, and green lightning the copies watch.  
  
In the heavens, fists meet, and only one stays in the air. The One begins to fall, and Smith stays. Mr. Anderson does not belong in the heavens, he is undeserving, he is not worthy, he had not gone through what Smith had.  
  
The god savors the taste of victory, as he carries The One back to the ground where he belongs.  
  
The trumpet grows louder in the anger of questions never to be answered.  
  
He sees his time has come. He is going to win. The choir echoes in triumph.  
  
Then everything stops.  
  
The sadness returns to us. The choir mourns. They lost their god in the light of heaven.  
  
No longer are they loud, they sing just above whispers. The trumpet seems so quiet, and lost, it could have not been there at all. The choir sings alone now.  
  
They will be the only ones who will mourn for the Agent, the Virus. They will be all that ever dared to think of him as a god.  
  
But there was never a choir. It was all Smith. It was Smith's song, Smith's triumph, Smith's lost, Smith's death. And only he mourns for himself.  
  
The choir's rhythm sound as if they're saying goodbye. They sound like they're saying he was more to them, as if he was something.  
  
But there is no choir, there is no spoon.  
  
The choir was part of Smith, the trumpets, and violins were him. It was Smith's song.  
  
Now he is gone, and the choir soon fades into the nothingness that use to be Smith.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Inspired by the Song, "Why, Mr. Anderson?" By Don Davis on the Matrix Revolutions Album. Is followed by original song. Don Davis said he would make a song dedicated to Smith, and he dedicated this to him, and so do I. 


End file.
